We all laugh as Kimber tries to glare at us, but she’s smiling despite herself.
“Get used to it,” Emerson tells her, nudging her shoulder. “This is normal now.”
Normal.
The word lands harder than he intends, because normal stopped existing a long time ago. Months ago. The warehouse changed everything. Berk bleeding out in my arms rewrote the meaning of survival, laughter bubbling through blood as she ended the man who stole from us.
That was the moment we nearly lost her.
Her recovery has been a blur of hospital lights, whispered prayers none of us would admit to saying, and a fear that rewires your bones. Three surgeries. Blood transfusions. A week in the ICU where we took shifts because none of us could bear to leave her side for more than a minute.
She’s home now, mostly healed, but her body is still catching up. She’s supposed to be resting. Taking it easy. Not wandering into the kitchen while Ronan is mid-meltdown over chicken breasts.
Ronan steps back from the stove after giving the last pot a decisive stir, wiping his hands on the ridiculous apron he once swore he’d rather die than wear. “We’re having rosemary garlic chicken, roasted potatoes, sautéed green beans—”
Berk gasps, cutting him off. Her whole face lights up. “You’re wearing them!” She claps, practically bouncing, becauseyes, the four of us are currently wearing frilly aprons covered in little cartoon octopuses. Pastel octopuses. With sparkles.
Berk ordered them as a joke… but Ronan took one look and decreed thatif she survived, then he’d wear whatever the hell she wanted.
So here we are.
She steps closer to him, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Next time Kimber stays over at her friend’s place, you’ll all have to bake wearing these naked. I would love to see that.”
“Oh, my god!” Kimber cries. “Seriously, Berk? Girl code! That’s like—my brother! My brothers! All of them!” She hops off her stool. “That’s it. Call me when dinner’s done. Ronan, you’re back on timer duty.”
Ronan shouts after her. “It’s literally on zero! You’re already burningeverythingwith it set to zero!”
Berk giggles and moves to the counter. “I can watch the timer,” she offers. “Since I ruined the surprise anyway.”
I’m already walking toward her. Emerson too. We move in tandem, drawn to her like the tide to the moon.
Emerson reaches her first and kisses her forehead gently. “Sit,” he murmurs, pulling a chair out for her like she’s fragile and precious. Which she is. Even though she hates it when we fuss, even though she can knife-fight four men at once, even though she’ll throat-punch anyone who calls her delicate.
She lowers herself into the seat carefully. Even now, healed as she is, certain movements stretch healing muscle and scar tissue. Emerson hovers a hand at her back, not touching, just ready.
I kneel in front of her, thumb sweeping across her knee as I lean in and kiss her softly. “Welcome back,” I whisper.
Her eyes soften. “I didn’t go anywhere.”
My chest tightens. “But it was close.”
Her smile falters for a heartbeat, then steadies. “It smells so good in here. I’m starving.”
“Worked up an appetite, huh?” I smirk, brushing my lips across hers again.
She rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Emerson says, handing her a glass of water. “He’s been dramatic since birth.”
“Fuck off,” I say lightly.
Ronan turns from the stove and points a spatula at me like it’s a weapon. “Both of you shut up unless you’re chopping vegetables.”
I raise a brow. “You’re barking orders like a crazy person.”
He flicks the spatula at me threateningly. “Keep talking and I’m throwing this at your head.”
Berk laughs—a soft, genuine laugh that makes every hair on my body stand up like a prayer being answered.